


Half a Dozen Dances

by CeruleanDarkangelis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bartender John, Blow Jobs, Dancing, Eventual Johnlock, Eventual Smut, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, It's For a Case, Johnlock Roulette, Lapdance, Loss of Virginity, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Slow Dancing, Songfic, Strip Tease, Stripper Sherlock, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Virgin Sherlock, bartender!John, stripper!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4116868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanDarkangelis/pseuds/CeruleanDarkangelis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Seriously? You? You're going to be a stripper?” John tried to keep the amused incredulity off his face. Judging by the disgruntled look Sherlock gave him, he was not entirely successful in this endeavor.</p><p>“I can dance, John.” Sherlock’s lower lip threatened to edge out into a full-fledged pout.</p><p>“Yeah, okay, but.......” John trailed off. Sure, he had seen Sherlock dance on rare occasions, but a waltz was a far cry from a strip tease, and his possibly asexual (virginal?) flatmate, was proposing to do just that. “.....where will you hide your handcuffs?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Weird, Dark Things

**Author's Note:**

> So........ um, hi.
> 
> I'm new here. Sorta. I've been lurking for a bit, reading some truly epic stories. I guess it's about time for me to add my contribution to the fandom. 
> 
> This is the first fic I've ever written. Actually the first anything I've ever written, a response to a challenge by my best friend Essa (I don't think she thought I'd actually do it, to be honest). I set out to do a quick little one-shot and ended up with this....... I don't even know. It got a little out of hand :D A million thanks to her for the initial kick in the ass as well as our other friends Trey, Eric and Cole for listening to me bitch about the process and for spitballing ideas with me.
> 
> Not beta'd or brit pick'd, but the whole thing is written (except the last chapter) and currently being edited, so if any of you experienced betas out there feel like taking a stab at it, let me know. Constructive criticism is always welcome. I'm here to learn (and for the porn, of course).
> 
> I will list the songs for each chapter in the notes at the beginning. I want to link to them but I gotta figure out how first (still on the low end of that learning curve). The first one is Weird, Dark Things by Bronze Whale ft. Khai.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

 

The club is dark, warm, and throbbing with a loud, primal beat. Colorful spotlights highlight the slim-yet-masculine figure wrapped around a pole at the center of the space and cast a dim glow across the faces of the men surrounding the stage, watching intently.  In stark contrast, the handful of lights scattered upon the walls of the club frame the deep shadows between them rather than provide any real illumination, offering the illusion of privacy to the couples lingering there. Doorways placed at discrete intervals offer the real thing for the price of a private dance.  Between these two extremes is a sea of low tables and deep armchairs, bracketed on one end by a long, sleek bar and on the other by a small dance floor populated with bodies moving to the powerful rhythm permeating the club.

John Watson is wearing tight leather trousers, a tight silk t-shirt, and a not-so-tight, slightly flirty smile. He's fairly certain that he's quite lost his mind. He slides a vodka tonic across the bar to yet another leering man, wipes his sticky hands on a bar towel, and turns to the next customer. SpIN is the hottest gay strip club on the London scene, and John has been tending bar for about two hours now. “Come on, Sherlock,” he mutters to himself, reaching into the cooler for a beer. “We need to solve this case.”

 

oOoOoOoOoOo

 

_“John!”_

_“I'm right here, you prat. There's no need for shouting.” John set down the cup of tea he had just poured for himself and turned toward the doorway just as Sherlock entered the flat, looking indecently cheerful._

_Sherlock strode across the kitchen and shoved a large shopping bag at his friend._

_“Oh lovely, tea. Here, John, these are for you.” He leaned against the counter next to John and appropriated the gently steaming cup with a smirk. Taking a sip, he raised his eyebrows expectantly._

_John sighed in resigned frustration at the loss of his tea and peered into the bag in his hands. Lots of silk. And….leather?_

_“What the bloody hell is this?”_

_“Wrong question.”_

_John rolled his eyes and rummaged through the bag. “Okay, why have you brought me these clothes? I can't see myself lounging around the flat in these,” he said, pulling out a pair of trousers. The brown leather was supple in his hands._

_“You see, but you do not observe. Think, John. Use your deductive skills. You’re bound to have picked up something of my methods by now.”_

_Biting back a quick rejoinder, John instead sank obediently down into a chair at the table and began pulling items out of the bag, turning them over in his hands as he laid them out across the scarred surface. Not his usual style at all. Ah, undercover work then. Style reads young and trendy, quality and tailoring lean toward posh surroundings. John thought back over the newspaper for the last few days._ Oh!

_He twisted around in his chair to find Sherlock patiently watching him over the rim of his cup. “There's another dead stripper?”_

_Sherlock lowered his tea as his eyes crinkled with a pleased grin. “Nicely done, John. Yes, Lestrade phoned me this morning. A second body has been found, a dancer from the same club. You and I will be going undercover as employees until we apprehend the killer, starting tonight. Tell me, how are your bartending skills?”_

_“Good enough,” John brushed the question aside with a careless wave of his hand, more interested in the case. “What’s the odd bit?”_

_Sherlock looked puzzled. “Which odd bit?”_

_John waved one of his hands in a vague gesture toward his friend. “The bit that makes these murders interesting. So far, it just sounds like a standard serial killer, a four for you at best.” Not that John was ungrateful. If Sherlock was investigating murders, even boring ones, at least the smiley face on the sitting room wall wouldn’t acquire any new gunshot wounds._

_“I just so happen to possess a unique set of qualifications for this particular case.”_

_“Which are?”_

_“I am tall and slender with dark hair,” stated Sherlock, with a twitch of one elegant eyebrow. “Just like both of our murdered dancers.”_

_While the idea of Sherlock setting himself up as bait made John more than a little nervous, he knew it would be useless to express these fears to the reckless detective. He completely understood (and sympathized with) a need for the rush of danger. Choking back his instinctive warnings, he tackled the other implication of this statement._

_“Seriously? You? You're going to be a stripper?” John tried to keep the amused incredulity off his face. Judging by the disgruntled look Sherlock gave him, he was not entirely successful in this endeavor._

_“I can dance, John.” Sherlock’s lower lip threatened to edge out into a full-fledged pout._

_“Yeah, okay, but.......” John trailed off. Sure, he had seen Sherlock dance on rare occasions, but a waltz was a far cry from a strip tease, and his possibly asexual (virginal?) flatmate, was proposing to do just that. “.....where will you hide your handcuffs?”_

_Caught off guard, Sherlock gave a startled laugh and pushed off the countertop to walk toward his bedroom, petulance forgotten._

_“Perhaps I should incorporate them into my performance,” he tossed over his shoulder with a wink. Just before disappearing down the hallway, he turned around to face John._

_“That's why I need you, John. Lestrade made arrangements with the club owner for us to work there until the killer is apprehended, but it will only be the two of us. Just watch the crowd for any suspicious behavior. I'll be observing from the stage, but I need you to be my eyes on the ground, so to speak.” He vanished down the hallway, calling back over his shoulder, “Get dressed, John. If we leave soon enough, we’ll have time to stop and have dinner at Angelo’s on the way.”_

 

oOoOoOoOoOo

 

“What’ll it be, mate?”

The dark haired man across the bar runs his predatory gaze over John and gives him a practiced half-smile. Placing his elbows on the sticky surface, he leans in close and looks up at John from beneath lowered eyelashes.

“What do you recommend?” he purrs.

The very blatancy of the man’s flirting amuses John, and he chuckles, following up with a warm smile. Two can play that game. Seeing that his obvious ploy has been well received, the stranger relaxes into a much more natural stance, and they come to the conclusion that a scotch would be _lovely, thanks_.

It’s not the first sign of interest that John’s gotten tonight, but it’s certainly the most bold. The memory of his handful of experiences with men back in his uni days has always been a fairly distant one, viewed through a haze of alcohol and sweat. He had forgotten entirely the tug of pleasure low in his belly that he got from being chatted up by a good looking bloke, and while he’s never had any real interest in repeating his uni experiences, he finds himself suitably flattered and flirts back easily.

The DJ catches his attention as he slides the requested scotch across the bar. “Boys, let's give it up for our latest dancer, Draven!!!!”

Applause rings out in the packed club for the young man making his way off the stage, gathering scattered bills as he goes. As he vanishes behind the heavy black curtain at the back, the DJ speaks up again. “Okay, gentlemen, we've got a special treat for you tonight! A brand new dancer, incredibly sexy, and I've seen some of his moves, so get your money ready. You're gonna need it. Welcome Scott to the stage! Show him some love, guys!”

“Showtime.”

John looks over his shoulder to the source of the softly voiced remark. Patrick, the club owner, cuts his eyes playfully in John’s direction while keeping his face forward, hands on his hips and gesturing with his chin toward the stage.

“Your friend’s up. This should be fun.” The look on his face is gleefully lascivious.

John widens his eyes and gives a pained grimace. “I don’t know, Patrick. The best I can hope for is that he doesn’t embarrass himself  too badly.”

Patrick turns to give him a brief searching look before breaking into a surprisingly deep laugh. “You actually don’t know, do you? I wouldn’t have let him up there without an audition. I do have a certain reputation to uphold, after all.” he says with a wicked grin.

John glances curiously toward the center of the club. _This_ he has to see.

The lighting on the stage fades until a single bright spotlight remains. [The music begins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxbZQS2FQSo), a gentle electronic sound, and a slightly mournful male voice kicks in. Where most of the dancers have been sticking closely to standard club music, this has a much more sultry feel.

For a few breathless moments nothing happens. Suddenly ‘Scott’ slips from behind the curtain like a shadow and stalks to the center of the floor. He's barefoot, wearing a black tuxedo and fedora pulled low on his brow, shielding his eyes. His bow tie is hanging loose around his neck and his jacket is open, revealing a dove grey shirt. The first two buttons are undone, exposing his slender throat and a glimpse of his prominent collarbones.

John’s expectant amusement morphs into surprised respect. Sherlock certainly looks the part. In the air, there is a subtle shifting of energy, as if the crowd as a whole has drawn a deep breath of anticipation.

As the music swells, Sherlock undulates gently, running his hands from mid thigh all the way up his chest to his tie, which he drags slowly out from under his collar.

_I can feel it_

_Finally falling from my tongue_

_I can hear it_

_It's alive now_

_I can feel it_

_finally falling from my tongue_

_I can hear it_

_I'm alive now_

  


A solid beat hits, and Sherlock nudges one foot forward and thrusts his hips hard, rolling his long, lithe body. John's mouth drops open in shock, and his eyes spring wide. Bloody hell! _Wh_ _ere and when did the lanky git learn to move like that?_ He somehow remembers to gather up his jaw, glancing around to see if anyone noticed his reaction and finds Patrick watching him.

The bar owner laughs again at the expression on his face, and leans in close to speak in John’s ear, “I tried to tell you.” He pulls away again and rests his hip against the bar, watching the show with a proprietary air.

John glances around to find that apparently not one man in the place can be arsed to look away from the stage long enough to worry about needing help at the bar

With no excuse to keep busy, his eyes swivel back to the stage where Sherlock is writhing to the music. _I'm alive now, indeed._ He certainly looks it. John has always perceived Sherlock to be a creature of the mind. He doesn't generally eat much unless John can coax food into him, and he will frequently avoid sleep until he passes out involuntarily, often in inconvenient spots around the flat (floor of the loo, John's armchair, once under the kitchen cabinet clutching a toilet brush and a whisk). He consistently appears to consider his physical body no more than a hindrance, just transport.

Watching him now, John is forced to re-evaluate that opinion. Sherlock’s movements are graceful as always, but with a liquid edge of sex that John has never seen a hint of before. _Dear God, he's on his hands and knees. Crawling. No, slinking. That's definitely slinking._  The man capturing everyone's attention is fully seated and present within his body (more of which is being revealed by the minute), and he certainly knows what to do with it.

John is not unfamiliar with Sherlock’s body. He’s patched up the careless twat enough times after particularly tough cases that he’s seen and bandaged just about every part of the man. Looking closely, John spots the  scar, high on one bony hip, where he had to put in eleven stitches after his friend got a bit too close to a knife wielding criminal. But the hip certainly wasn’t moving like _that_ at the time. Maybe if it had, he wouldn’t have needed those stitches.

John tears his eyes from the spectacle in front of him, remembering why he's here. Scanning the crowd, all eyes are fixed on Sherlock. They’re all watching him as if they want to consume him, but there’s simply no way to tell if the feverish light in their eyes screams lust or murder. Glancing back at the stage, John's guessing lust. _Are his bones made of rubber? Or does he just not have bones at all?_

Sherlock's clothes are scattered across the stage, leaving him in a snug pair of black boxer briefs. Between the random piles of clothing, the floor is carpeted with money.

The song drifts to a close _(I'm alive now)_ , and Sherlock ends the dance on his knees, sitting on his heels, thighs slightly spread, arms hanging loose at his sides. His chest is heaving, and his head is thrown back, exposing the long line of his slender throat.

The applause is deafening in the crowded room, with some whistling thrown in for variety. Sherlock gracefully rises to his feet and favors the crowd with a slight smirk and the tiniest flicker of his eyes toward the bar before making his way offstage.

John joins in the general applause, but then has to hustle to keep up with the redoubled number of drink orders. Apparently Sherlock has left more than a few dry mouths in his wake. For the rest of the night, John continues to work and observe the crowd, but a small hidden section of his brain buzzes with this newly acquired information about his best friend.

 

oOoOoOoOoOo

 

“Sherlock, that was bloody brilliant!” John exclaims, rather more enthusiastically than he had intended. _God, I sound like a squealing fangirl._

As Sherlock folds his ridiculously long limbs into the cab, his customary tight control is back in place. His movements are still graceful, but the sexual fluidity is gone. John watches him covertly, trying to reconcile this to the man he saw onstage just a couple of hours ago.

Sherlock levels him with an inquisitive glance. “You frequently call me brilliant, but typically only after I've said something you perceive as clever. We haven't spoken all evening, and yet you're impressed.” His face breaks into a wide grin. “Also, I observed you watching me. You liked my performance.”  The grin evolves into a teasing smirk. “I didn’t take you for that kind of man, John.”

It's blessedly dark inside the car speeding through the London streets in the wee hours. John fervently hopes that Sherlock can't see the sudden blush that stains his cheeks.

“Of course I'm impressed. Where did you learn to dance like that? I thought you weren’t interested in sex,” he blurts without thinking, forgetting for the moment that their staunch British sensibilities don’t allow for discussion of such intimate topics.

“It’s just biology, John. I don’t require experience of the sex act itself to be able to mimic it.” He turns his face to the window and softly murmurs, as if to himself, “Boring.”

 _That answers that question._ An inexplicable increase in John’s heart rate makes it slightly difficult to keep his voice level. “Well, it’s hard to spot a murderer when everyone there looked like they wanted to kidnap you and take you home. You had every man in that club practically gasping after you.”

“Did I?” Looking back over his shoulder, Sherlock locks eyes with John and gazes intently at him for a long moment, before his lips quirk up on one side and he turns his face back toward the window.

Clearing his throat, he says briskly, “Backstage, I discovered that both our victims were in the habit of arranging unauthorized meetings with clients during their private dances. An extra service, as it were. I shall have to adjust my strategy accordingly.”

“Sherlock! You can't actually mean that you're going to leave with any of these blokes. Are you?” John's mind unhelpfully presents him with a mental image of Sherlock’s lean body lost in a passionate embrace with some nameless, faceless man, eyes closed in ecstasy.

Shaken by the vision, his blush intensifies as he, too, turns to look out the window. “That’s extraordinarily dangerous.” He winces with the realization that he’s made a poor choice of words. Danger has never been a deterrent, for either of them. Rather the opposite, actually.

“Most likely not. I am confident that I will be able to pinpoint our suspect within the confines of the club. I shall simply move among the crowd and offer private dances so that I can engage the customers in conversation.”

He looks back at John, who reflexively turns to meet Sherlock's eyes. “Innuendo is a powerful tool,” he says with a smirk.

After a beat of silence, the cab stops outside 221B Baker Street. “Come along, John. We're home.”

They clatter up the stairs, not worrying about waking Mrs. Hudson, as she's away on holiday at her sister's. Entering their flat, Sherlock sheds his coat and scarf and inquires, “You look tired, John. Shall I make you a cup of tea?”

Despite this unprecedented offer, John is already headed for his bedroom. “None for me, thanks. I'm just going to go to bed. It's been a long night.” Reaching up to rub the small ache at the back of his neck, he chuckles quietly and flashes a weary but pleased grin. “You know, when I woke up today, I never imagined I would end up tending bar in a strip club till all hours of the morning. I should have learned by now that with you, nothing’s predictable. ‘Night, Sherlock.” He turns to climb the stairs to his room.

Half way up the flight, he hears a quiet, “Good night, John,” float up the stairs behind him.

He drags his clothes off and tumbles into bed, snuggling down into his blankets, completely exhausted. So why can't he stop envisioning his flatmate's debut performance?

 

 

 

 


	2. Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GAWD, you guys!!!! You like it, you really like it!!! I'm beyond thrilled with the response to the first chapter :D I had a major freakout immediately after posting it, and you all made it completely worthwhile! Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who read, subscribed, left comments, or kudos; you've made me a much more pleasant person to be around this week. I can't get the silly grin off my face!
> 
> Also..... *singsongs* I got a beta!!! Massive thanks to leyley09 (seriously, does anybody know how to do links on these things?) for taking a red pen to my writing and making it pretty! Any mistakes left are completely my own (craftily hidden, of course).
> 
> For this chapter, the song is Angel by Massive Attack, and BONUS, the song for the end of the chapter is My Eyes by Nero.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

John crawls out of bed late the next day after a restless and unsatisfying sleep. He stumbles blearily downstairs, still rubbing his eyes and very much looking forward to a cuppa.

At the bottom of the stairs, he glances around, expecting to find Sherlock tapping away at his laptop or possibly in the midst of a new ‘terribly exciting’ yet completely disgusting experiment involving rat spleens. The flat, however, appears empty and quiet. Dismissing an unexpected pang of disappointment, he turns to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

It's not until he reaches into the cupboard for his favorite RAMC mug that he hears muffled noises coming from the direction of Sherlock's room. So his flatmate _is_ home. The thought gives John an almost imperceptible frisson of awareness, though he's not sure why.  _What the hell is he doing in there? Re-arranging furniture?_

 

As John waits for the kettle to boil, Sherlock's door flies open. Before John can gather enough of his sleep-addled wits to greet him for the day, his  _(slightly sweaty?)_ friend disappears into the loo. The sound of the shower running fills the flat, and John pulls down another mug, placing it next to his own. He is resolutely  _not_ envisioning soap suds and clear water trickling across pale skin.

John’s hands automatically go about the familiar ritual of making tea as his mind wanders. This newfound physical awareness of his friend is unsettling. John has always been aware, in an objective sort of way, that his flatmate is an attractive man. Between his artfully tousled curls, ludicrous cheekbones, and sinful mouth, it’s really no wonder he draws admiring glances everywhere he goes, from both men and women. It generally only lasts until he opens his mouth, but even so.

While John is certainly not put off by Sherlock’s personality quirks, it’s the brain behind the face that John really admires. Sherlock’s mind is so overwhelmingly brilliant that it’s all too easy to forget that he’s human, built of flesh like any other man.

A long arm snakes around John to grab the extra cup of tea (heavily sugared) as he is absentmindedly stirring milk into his own. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts that he never even heard the shower turn off. A moist heat radiates into the muscles of his back, and he stiffens at the counter as a breath ghosts across the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock’s voice rumbles in his ear. “Good morning.”

The warmth behind him vanishes, leaving him chilled despite the fact that the temperature in the flat was just fine a few moments ago. He reluctantly turns around to see Sherlock standing just _slightly_ closer than normal as he raises the too-hot tea to his lips. His initial impression, that Sherlock is standing in the kitchen stark naked, is thankfully dispelled when he glances down and spots the white towel, only a few shades lighter than Sherlock’s pale skin carelessly knotted around his hips. When he raises his eyes back to Sherlock’s face, he finds his friend rubbing a smaller towel through his damp curls with a slight smirk on his face.

“G-Good morning.” John’s thought processes crash to a halt. What the hell do they normally say to each other over tea? His ability to engage in normal conversation has deserted him, and he casts around desperately for something, _anything_ to say.

Anything at all.

Sherlock blessedly comes to his rescue. “Did the noise wake you?”

Remembering what he’d heard, John says, “Oh, no, it’s fine. Only...what were you doing, bumping around down here?”

“Rehearsing. Obviously.” Sherlock rolls his eyes in exasperation, the effect somewhat diminished by the suppressed amusement lurking around the edges of his mouth. Somehow the thought of Sherlock dancing like _that_ , here in their home, feels far more intimate than it has any right to.

Before he can react to that thought, Sherlock leans forward once more, crowding John against the edge of the counter with his body as he reaches past him to set the now empty mug in the sink, the inside of his arm just barely grazing John’s hip. Just as quickly, he whirls around and strides toward the door.

“Better get dressed, John. You don't want to be late,” He vanishes back into his bedroom with a tiny click as the door shuts. John sucks in a deep breath and releases it slowly, shaking his head. It’s going to be a long night.

 

oOoOoOoOoOo

 

John chats with patrons, fills drink orders, and tries to keep an eye out for any unusual activity. He is resolutely _not_ watching Sherlock circulate among the crowd, _flirting_ of all things.

Sherlock is actually a very accomplished flirt, this being a skill he occasionally employs while  questioning witnesses and suspects alike. Normally watching him work a case is captivating, thrilling, but tonight it’s just….distracting.

John aims a moderate glare at the current recipient of Sherlock’s attention. The smug-looking blond bastard is sitting across the room in a squashy leather chair with a certain lanky detective perched on the arm, smiling down at him. The man is tall, well dressed, and strikingly handsome  The conversation appears to be quite...intimate, and John firmly reminds himself why they are here and exactly what Sherlock is doing.

_Jealous?_ He shies away from the thought, not even remotely ready to consider its implications, and focuses instead on the stranger ogling his friend. The possibility that this man is a potential suspect is oddly comforting, giving John a perfectly justifiable reason to loathe him.

“That’s a fairly sexy scowl you've got going there, but I do believe I prefer your face when it’s smiling.”

Mind still focused on the scene being played out across the room, John turns automatically to greet the customer speaking to him and recognizes the grinning face of his bold suitor from the night before. He chuckles in surprised amusement, his face relaxing into a rueful smile.

“Ah, there you are.” The man says warmly, leaning closer. “I've been looking forward to seeing that smile again. I’m afraid I didn't get your name last night. I’m Ethan.”

“I’m John.” He extends his hand, which Ethan takes, skimming his fingers delicately across the inside of John’s wrist before giving it back.

“So, John, what grim thoughts were taking your smile away?”

A glance across the room reveals that the armchair is now empty. Having lost his quarry, John shakes his head and responds, “Oh, just me being silly, I suppose. Another scotch for you?”

As he pours Ethan’s drink, he tries unsuccessfully to not think about where his friend might be now. In answer to his unspoken question, the DJ announces that Scott is next up on stage.

Word about the new dancer has evidently spread. The entire club nearly gives themselves whiplash, turning from the bar and their own conversations to stare at the stage, waiting. John's traitorous body goes on high alert. He slides the scotch across the bar, and Ethan takes it with a light brush of fingertips.

“I've been looking forward to this, too,” Ethan says, turning toward the stage.

The [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v3uGDl6gdyQ) comes up, hard and heavy. The driving bass can be felt through the floor, traveling up through John’s feet and legs, and coming to rest in his abdomen.

Sherlock oozes onto the stage, head down, dragging a wooden folding chair behind him. He is once again barefoot, wearing a black v-neck with a plum silk shirt open over it. Ripped jeans hang precariously on his hips, leaving a narrow band of skin bare at his waist. He leaves the chair in the middle of the stage and continues walking all the way to the edge closest to the bar. His head snaps up, eyes smoldering and he begins to roll his hips to the throbbing music

 

_You are my angel_

_Come from up above_

_To bring me love_

 

John is frozen in place. It's a good thing everyone else is as well; he couldn't serve a drink right now if he tried. There is no possible way he can drag his eyes from the display unfolding before him. _This is no angel. He’s a walking obscenity._ John can practically feel his pupils dilating.   _Christ, has Sherlock's arse always looked like that?_

_Wait. What?_

Onstage, Sherlock scans the bar until he locates John. He glances down, looking at his own body, but his eyes return to John, smirking as if to say ‘See? Biology.’ The curve of his mouth takes on a hint of a challenge as he drapes himself into the chair, topless now and with the fly of his jeans undone, purple underwear just visible in the shadows. Still holding John’s gaze, he slides his hands down his chest, across the plane of his stomach and down _into_ his jeans, His eyes slam shut and he throws his head back, grinding his arse in circles on the chair.   _Oh. my. God._

Deeply grateful for the loud music, John feels a small whimper escape. The sound turns into a full-fledged moan when Sherlock spins round, tossing one impossibly long leg over the back to straddle the chair. Reaching down to grab the seat, he begins to _oh dear Christ_ snap his hips forward in time with the pulsing beat. John's fondest wish in that moment is to be sitting in that chair _right the fuck now ohgodyesplease._ He’s never been so grateful for anything in his life than the fact that Sherlock is facing away from him right now, unable to see his face.

Reaching down behind the cover of the bar to adjust the erection that is now pressing painfully against his zipper, he moans again quietly at the contact. _Okay, point taken._

John breathes a sigh, this time of relief, when the song eventually comes to a close. Sherlock retreats behind the curtain to the sound of thunderous applause, and suddenly John can breathe again.

He looks over to find Ethan watching him closely.

“Friend of yours?” he asks with a smile.

“Uh...no...I mean, yes. Yes, he’s my flatmate.” All John can do is sputter while a hundred thoughts bounce around the inside of his skull. He’s apparently much less straight than he had previously believed. He’s also just been rather violently turned on by his best friend. This is more than a bit not good. Oh God, why can’t it be literally anyone other than Sherlock?

Ethan’s smile takes on an envious edge. “You lucky thing, you. No wonder you've been so coy.”

“Oh….no. No. I’m not... It’s not like that. We’re just friends,” John babbles. “How could you tell we know each other?”

“Oh, honey, even in this place you don’t generally see an eyefuck like that between strangers,” he says, laughing.

John’s hands fly to cover his flaming cheeks. “Oh my God, was I so obvious?” he asks in desperation. This cannot be happening. Sherlock had been looking at him; what sort of things had his face been doing without his permission?

Ethan grins. “I don’t know; were you? As adorable as you are, I was looking at _him_. And _he_ was looking at _you_.”

“Oh, that.” John shakes his head, feeling somewhat relieved, but his heart rate is still far too high. “No, that was just him proving a point.”

“Well, whatever you think it’s ‘not like,’ I’d say he’s definitely got a point to prove with you.” Ethan says with another chuckle.

“Oh, god, oh, god, shut up, shut up.” _What am I, fourteen now?_ All of the overheated blood occupying John’s face suddenly drains away as he spots Sherlock approaching over Ethan’s shoulder. He absolutely cannot walk into the middle of this particular conversation. “Talk about something else.”

Ethan’s face goes blank just as Sherlock pushes in next to him at the bar. “Well, hello there, sexy.” He gives Ethan an engaging smile before turning to John. “John, do be a love and get me a brandy, will you sweetheart?”

“Sure thing, Scott. Ethan, do you want another one?” Ethan nods, smirking, and as John turns away to pour their drinks, he can see Sherlock flirting skillfully with Ethan, leaning in close and speaking quietly into his ear. John takes a moment to panic without knowing why. _Oh dear God, this cannot be happening._ Not entirely sure what it is that he’s afraid of, he slides their drinks across the bar, hoping that his face  doesn't betray his interior tremors.

Sherlock turns away from Ethan and picks up his brandy, favoring John with a wink. “Thanks, pet.” With a final smolder at Ethan _what’s that about?_ , he disappears into the depths of the club, and John once again breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

Ethan watches him, eyes twinkling with merriment. “I never had a chance with you, did I?”

 

oOoOoOoOoOo

 

John extends his closing routine at the bar as long as he possibly can, trying to devise a strategy for surviving the cab ride home without completely embarrassing himself. When he finally drags himself out into the night, he sees Sherlock leaning against a streetlight, staring at his phone. The detective glances up, his eyes in shadow, his _(beautiful, perfect, kissable)_ lips curving into a smile. “Ah, there you are, John. I was just about to text you. Everything alright?”

An answering smile flares to life on John's face. “Of course. Everything's great.” His eyes flicker over Sherlock's form, tracing the long lines of his body. He realizes what his face is doing and scrambles to reign it in before Sherlock notices. “Erm.....shall we?” he asks, gesturing toward the corner where a cab is idling quietly.

For a moment, nothing happens. John's wishes he could see Sherlock's eyes, try to determine what is going on in that remarkable brain of his. Suddenly, Sherlock pushes away from the streetlight and stalks toward him. John tenses and holds his ground until Sherlock brushes past him, heading for the waiting car. John's eyes drift closed on a sigh, and he grits his teeth briefly before turning around and climbing into the cab.

To his relief, Sherlock is preoccupied with some no doubt fascinating bit of something on his phone. _Probably researching the effects of acid on a cheese toast or some other esoteric weirdness._ John consciously relaxes his shoulders and massages his temples with his fingertips. If he can't come to some sort of agreement with his overactive imagination, his head might explode. _I wonder what an aneurysm actually feels like?_ What he could really use right now is a little bit of privacy. All he needs is a nice quick wank and a good night’s sleep. _Except Sherlock. Naked. In his bed. Oh God. Not now, please not now._ Great, he's been reduced to pleading with his cock to behave.

“John?”

He freezes, his hands still mid-rub at the sides of his head. “Yes?”

“Are you sure you're alright? You don't look quite well. Are you in pain?”

“No. No, I'm fine. Just....um, headache, is all.”

“We're home, John. Come, get out of the car, I'll make you some tea.”

As John waits for Sherlock to unlock the door, he laughs silently to himself. He must look a rare sight if Sherlock is actually offering to make tea. Again. What’s this new trend all about? He’s not sure, but if it involves Sherlock voluntarily making tea, he’s all for it.

John makes it upstairs into the flat, turns on the telly, and collapses on the sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes. He practices just breathing. He can hear Sherlock shuffling around in the kitchen. “John, did you happen to see anything unusual tonight?”

“No.” _Only my best friend shoving his hands down his pants and enjoying the hell out of it._ “Nothing. Did you get anything out of your...clients?” He clears his throat, loudly. _God, please let him not have heard that._ He sounds jealous, and he knows it.

“Nothing conclusive, but I do have my eye on one or two who seem a bit suspicious. They'll both be at the club tomorrow night. I may have to get a little closer to find the clues I'm looking for.”

John keeps his arm over his face, trying _not_ to imagine what a lap dance from Sherlock would look like. Unsuccessfully.

Moments pass while John forces himself to calm. He's so invested in this process that he squeaks, much to his chagrin, when he feels a touch on his knee and the breath of a voice in his ear. “Your tea will get cold, John.”

Reluctantly removing his arm from across his face, he sees Sherlock settling comfortably onto the other corner of the sofa with a cup of tea, drawing his knees up to his chest. His own cup sits gently steaming on the table. He snatches it up and brings it to his face, inhaling, hoping that the blush on his cheeks will be attributed to the warmth of his drink. The tea is perfect, just the way he likes it, and he closes his eyes to breathe it in.

Sherlock clears his throat and smiles shyly _(shyly?)_ at him. “I have to thank you, John. I...I  enjoy… It’s good to know that you’re watching me so closely while I’m onstage.” John's previously calmed heart comes to a stuttering halt inside his chest. _You have no idea. Or do you? Oh God, you saw the way I was looking at you, didn’t you?_ His brain goes numb, unable to find words with which to respond. He focuses in on Sherlock's face which is, of course, completely unreadable.

“I do mean it, John. I'm certain that between the two of us, we will catch our killer. He's bound to make a mistake that one of us will see.”

_Oh God. The case. He means the case._ “Sure, mate. Anything to catch a murderer.” John wonders what Sherlock would say if he knew just how intently John had been watching him. Probably get that analyzing look on his face, start cataloging data. _Ugh, how embarrassing._

Sherlock is married to his work, that much was made clear very early on in their friendship. Nothing in his manner since has indicated otherwise, and John has never found that fact inconvenient until now. He’s also never before had the frankly insane urge to fling his flatmate down onto the floor and shag him senseless. To run his hands across that pale perfect flesh, to breathe in the scent of that beautiful throat, to tangle his fingers in that mop of glorious curls. He has to get this out of his system. Somehow. Now.

“Right, then.” John jumps to his feet, setting down his now cold cup of tea. “I'm off for a shower.”

He all but sprints up the stairs to grab his robe and closes himself off in the loo, pulling out his phone as he locks the door. He's going to need a bit of cover-up noise for this. Looking through a list of MP3s, he spots the song that Sherlock used earlier tonight. _Oh, so tempting._ His _(brilliant, delicious, seductive)_ flatmate is no doubt skilled enough to deduce exactly what John is about to be doing in the shower, but there's no need to flash a neon sign. Stifling a groan, he regretfully chooses one of the other [songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiojdDs8wwk&index=3&list=PLU3EAawkq2dGnKJz6G2UO60mQSgnEk2DV) he heard at the club earlier that night. _Yes, that should do it._ With any luck, perhaps Sherlock will believe he's thinking about one of the other dancers instead.

 

_My eyes follow you around the room_

_And I only ever look at you_

_The way you move_

_I get a feeling I can't hide_

_It's up to you_

_If we're gonna do this tonight_

He turns on the taps and waits for the water to warm up as he sheds his clothes. Once he's sure that the music is loud enough to cover any noises he might make, he steps into the shower, braces one hand against the wall, and closes his eyes. With his free hand he palms his erection, allowing himself to replay Sherlock's entire performance, start to finish.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I've discovered? Comments make me squeal like a little girl. And I'm okay with that. Let me know what you think!!


	3. IsThis Real?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and at the end of a stupidly long day, Chapter Three!! 
> 
> I am honestly too beat to have anything clever to say here.
> 
> I am firmly convinced that tomorrow will be a much better day, plus (bonus) I will have all your lovely comments to look forward to :D 
> 
> Massive thanks to anyone who reads, comments, kudos; you're the reason I'm still awake!
> 
> P.S. I forgot to link the song for this week's performance, but it's Is This Real by Lisa Hall. Happy listening!
> 
> Also, this chapter wouldn't be half as pretty without the ridiculously prompt assistance of my beta, leyley09!! 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, and I'm gonna go get some sleep :D

John yawns on his way down the stairs and considers retracing his steps right back to bed. He’s not nearly as young as he used to be, and these late nights are taking their toll. After a brief internal debate, the delectable scent of coffee convinces him otherwise. With any luck, Sherlock won’t have consumed the entire pot yet.

He finds Sherlock in the kitchen, draped in his blue silk dressing gown and cotton pyjama bottoms, poring over a pile of photos which are covering most of their kitchen table. There is indeed fresh coffee in his favorite cup, which Sherlock nudges in his direction.

“Your breakfast is in the oven, keeping warm,” his flatmate murmurs distractedly, shuffling the photos around.

Pausing with the cup a whisper away from his lips, John blinks. _Sherlock made breakfast?_ He gives the air a cautious sniff, testing for remnants of smoke or hazardous chemicals, and detects only the lingering aroma of toast and bacon. Well, the flat is still standing, and nothing appears to be damaged. He grabs the warm plate from the oven and digs in, mumbling his thanks around a mouthful of toast. With the table acting as a staging area, he opts to lean against the countertop with his food, and tries not to stare at Sherlock’s lean torso, exposed under his dressing gown.

“What’s all this, then?” John asks, finally sipping his coffee, and attempting to bring his brain back online.

Sherlock is fluttering around the table, circling, pacing, and stopping to compare. He stops suddenly, right in front of where John is standing _of course_ , to use his magnifying glass, bending low over the table. John makes a distinct effort to pay attention to what his friend is saying.

“I had Molly send over these pictures of the bodies. Both our victims had recently engaged in anal intercourse. They also both display these marks on their backs. They appear to be fingernail scratches, John, deep enough that they should have bled, but there was no blood found on either of the bodies.”

John ponders this for a moment. “Could the scratches have been made post mortem? They wouldn't have bled then.”

Sherlock holds a picture out at arm's length, squinting and rotating it back and forth until he finds an angle that pleases him. “No, I don't believe so.” He picks up another photo and rotates it next to the first. “Best to be thorough, however. Come John, I require your assistance.”

John abandons his breakfast and follows Sherlock into the sitting room.

“Lie down on the floor.”

“Oh, am I meant to be a dead body again? I love this part,” John says with a roll of his eyes, doing it nevertheless.

“Don’t be sarcastic, John, it doesn’t suit you. You're going to be the murderer this time. I need you flat on your back.”

John rolls over onto his back and says, “Okay, what are you-- unf!”

He utters a profoundly undignified squawk as Sherlock swoops down to kneel astride his hips.

_Oh shit. No. Nonononono. Dead puppies. Festering wounds. Think of something!_

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?”

“I must determine the exact position and angle at which those marks were made. Now place your hands against my back and curve your fingers as if you are scratching me during a passionate moment.” Sherlock grabs John's wrists and thrusts the doctor's hands behind him. Only the thin silk of Sherlock’s dressing gown separates John’s fingertips from the warm skin and lithe muscles underneath.

_Christ, when did this become my life? Think, think, think. Pile-ups on the motorway. A bad Saturday night at the A &E. Mycroft. _

Sherlock begins to pivot his body back and forth, ostensibly looking for the correct alignment, but in actuality causing a lot of wholly unnecessary friction.

_Oh god no. Evil cabbies. The severed head in the fridge last week. Please, let me not make a complete knob of myself._

Sherlock leans slightly forward, arching his back _oh you have got to be kidding_ and John's face-saving strategies evaporate into nothing. His head swims as his blood deserts his brain, evidently deciding it has urgent business to attend to elsewhere.

There's absolutely no possible way to hide his body’s reaction without physically removing Sherlock from his lap, but he is paralyzed by a combination of arousal and sheer, unmitigated terror. His expression freezes into blankness, and his eyes slide shut, resigning himself to the inevitable. Sherlock goes perfectly still on top of him, and John knows that he’s caught the basic gist of things.

John has no idea how Sherlock might react. Holding his breath, he waits for a cutting remark, amusement, painful awkwardness, or any of a thousand other responses. The only thing he is certain that Sherlock _won't_ do is ignore it and leave John with a small measure of dignity. A moment passes in silence. Then another. Then, just _there_ , he feels an answering pulse against his groin.

The sensation is so astonishing that it takes a moment for John to register exactly what has happened, and in that moment the feeling of another cock swelling against his own becomes even more pronounced. John's eyes pop open of their own accord and are met with surprised heat reflected back at him in Sherlock's blue-green eyes.

John's hands spasm, digging his nails into the smooth skin of Sherlock’s back through the insignificant silk barrier, and only just manages to stop himself thrusting up with his hips.

Sherlock's face dissolves into blankness, rapidly followed by a look of dawning realization. He breathes, “Yes....” and falls forward, landing propped with a hand on either side of John's head, beaming down into the smaller man's face. “That was perfect, John. Thank you.”

Sherlock hops gracefully to his feet and flies back to the kitchen to flutter around the table again.

“They were in that exact position when those marks were made, therefore they must have been alive at the time. But why cleanse the bodies before disposal? The blood itself wouldn’t have been significant. What was there besides blood that needed to be removed?”

John lies stunned on the floor and watches this display of mental acrobatics, wondering if this is a conscious avoidance what just happened or if Sherlock has been so completely sidetracked by the puzzle before him that he’s already deleted it. Not that it matters now, anyhow. The moment has passed, and John knows that Sherlock won’t acknowledge what happened either way. _Not his area_.

Climbing to his feet, John takes a slow, deep breath, and releases it, saying, “I dunno, mate. What have you already tested for?” He follows his best friend back into the kitchen and finishes his breakfast.

 

oOoOoOoOoOo

 

John has a bar towel in his hand and is dejectedly mopping up someone’s spilled drink as he watches Sherlock, once again engaged in flirtatious conversation with the handsome blond stranger from the night before. Sherlock is leaning over him, not touching, but definitely implying that he'd like to. What had started out as a good night saw John becoming more and more miserable.

“Don’t take it too seriously, mate.”

Startled out of his dark musings, John whirls around with the towel still clutched in his hands to find Patrick standing behind him, face wreathed in sympathetic lines.

“Jesus, Patrick, you have to stop sneaking up on me like that!”

The bar owner gives him a knowing smile. “I wouldn’t have been able to if you hadn’t been so focused on him.”

Patrick gestures with his chin toward the amorous tableau taking place across the room. “It’s just the job. Most of my dancers who have partners won’t let them come to the club while they’re working. Knowing what their boyfriends do and seeing it are two different things, and a lot of people can’t handle it when it’s in their face like that.”

“We’re not partners. Uh… not in that sense.” John says quietly, casting a glance around the bar area, ensuring no one else is within earshot.

“You forget, John, I’ve seen you watch him dance.” Patrick’s eyes twinkle playfully. “I know jealousy when I see it. I also know acting when I see it; my dancers do it every night. And right now Sherlock is acting. Brilliantly, I might add.”

Patrick leans in a little closer to speak in John’s ear. “You know, when I spoke to your Detective Inspector friend the other day, he told me Sherlock was the brains of your little operation, but you’re no fool, John. The men in this club, all they see is a beautiful piece of meat. You and I are the only ones here who know what he’s really up to, and he’s doing a spectacular job of it. He’s a good man.”

John huffs out a laugh. “Thanks, Patrick. It’s good to hear someone else appreciate what he does. That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“That he’s a complete arse.”

Patrick chuckles. “Oh, he’s that too, certainly. But still a good man.”

The DJ announces that it's time for Scott to return to the stage, and both John and his heart rate take immediate notice. He watches all his customers turn away from the bar, exchanges a grin with Patrick, and leans his hip against a cooler, ready to enjoy what has rapidly become the best part of his day.

[The beat begins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AUnPS_TjVSs) almost like a heartbeat and John feels it lodge in his body like it belongs there. Then he sees Sherlock, dressed in body-hugging brown leather and deep crimson silk. The man prowls forward onto the stage, and begins to move. Thighs flex as his upper body rolls, abdominal muscles threatening the integrity of the buttons on the typically Sherlockian-fitted shirt. It's slow and sensual and _oh fuck_ incredibly sexy. There are several poles in different spots around the stage, and until tonight Sherlock has ignored them all. This performance is different.

 

_Twisted this feeling walked out of shape_

_So tired of revealing the moves that I make_

_And I know, yes I know, but is this real?_

_And I know, yes I know, but is this real?_

_Feeling inconstant could drive me insane_

_Flesh to blood to bone to love_

_Twisted..._

_And I know, yes I know, but is this real?_

_And I know, yes I know, but is this real?_

 

Sherlock plants his feet on either side of the center pole, hanging from it by one long arm, his body arched back. His other hand rests on his hip as he undulates, riding the metal between his legs. His eyes flash to John's and he gives a wicked half-smile before twining his long body around the pole. Every system in John's body comes to a crashing, screeching halt. A beat, then another, and everything shifts into overdrive, making up for lost time. _God, that’s hot._

John flashes back to the moment in the flat when he felt Sherlock's erection pressed against his own. A fresh wave of desire rocks his body. There's no way he imagined that heated look in Sherlock’s eyes.

_And I know, yes I know, but is this real?_

_And I know, yes I know, but is this real?_

John's facial muscles, not sure what to do, are displaying a remarkable range of contortions when a voice penetrates his pleasant haze. Dropping his fantasy of being suddenly turned into a metal pole, he turns to see a man gesturing to him from across the bar. _Really? It has to be right now?_ John's face finally settles on an expression of icy politeness and clings to it for dear life.

“Grab me a Newcastle, mate.” It’s the blond stranger that Sherlock was draped across earlier. Seen up close, the man is even more striking, a strong face with vivid green eyes and a generous mouth. The overpowering scent of his cologne makes John slightly nauseous. The berk doesn't even turn his greedy eyes from the stage as he orders. John hadn’t thought it was possible to dislike this man any more than he already did, but he happily proves himself wrong.

Grabbing a beer from the cooler, John opens the bottle and slides it across the bar without speaking. The man pays for his drink and raises it in a salute toward the stage where Sherlock is peeling the leather trousers from his legs in long, languid motions.

“Revealing a bit more than his moves, he is.” he says, with a pervy grin.

John clenches his fists and fights to keep a smile on his face. “Sure, mate. He's definitely.....special.” _You have no idea how special, you twat._

He leaves the blond stranger to his drink, and walks several paces down the bar, forcing himself not to vault over it and incapacitate the posh arsehole. There’s no proof that he’s their murderer, not yet, but John is very, very hopeful.

Dismissing the wanker, he raises his eyes back to the stage to find Sherlock watching him. John lifts his lip in a slight sneer with a vague gesture toward the berk at the end of the bar. The world's only consulting detective curls his mouth into the slow, secret smile that he only bestows when he thinks that John’s done something clever, and gives him the tiniest suggestion of a wink.

Arousal flares in John’s body, even though he hasn’t actually earned the ‘clever’ smile. His distaste for the blond is based on personal dislike rather than a brilliant deduction, but Sherlock must agree that he’s the prime suspect at this point in their investigation.

He watches his friend leave the stage, and double checks that his phone is on vibrate in case he needs to take action at any point. Feeling the pleasant hum of anticipation, he turns back to his duties, keeping half his attention trained on the blonde, tracking his progress around the bar.

He’s so focused on the man, in fact, that the adrenaline which has been steadily seeping into his system lights him up like Christmas when he looks up and spots the object of his _desire, lust_ draped over an entirely different man. Ethan.

His body clenches, silently screaming _MINE!_ He looks down at his hands on the bar and consciously uncurls his fists. _It's for the case, idiot. Just for the case._ Could it be that he was wrong? He had really only assumed that the blond was their suspect based on Sherlock’s reaction to him. But he had seemed so certain.

If that’s true, then this is….. _recreational?_ He cannot help looking back at the pair. Invitation is written all over Sherlock's face as he leads Ethan toward one of the private dance rooms in the back.

Perhaps Ethan was working with the other man? John hadn’t picked up on any red flags during their interactions at the bar.

Ethan glances back over his shoulder at John, then down at the floor, blushing as the door closes behind them.

John’s train of thought crashes to a resounding halt. Just then, Patrick announces last call and there's a rush of customers. When he gets another chance to look up, the door to the room is open again and neither man is in sight. He’s lost track of the blond as well. P _lease let this be for the case._

By the time the club shuts down for the night, John is racing through his closing duties. Just as he's finishing up, he finally feels his phone vibrate.

_Don't wait for me. I have some business to attend to. - SH_

John feels his stomach drop. He dithers on the sidewalk, body clenched, strung tight with the need to do _something_. He’s ready for a chase, a fight, anything.

_Business? - JW_

_Yes. - SH_

_Where are you? I can help. - JW_

_Not with this – SH_

_What do you mean 'this'? Did you go home with someone?!- JW_

_Don't – SH_

_Don't what? - JW_

_Don't make assumptions. You don't have all the data. - SH_

_Then tell me! - JW_

_John, I need for you to trust me. Please. - SH_

John heaves a sigh as all the tension drains from his body, leaving him numb. He stares at his phone for a full minute before responding.

_Yeah, of course I do, Sherlock. Whatever it is you're doing, be careful. - JW_

When John gets back to Baker Street, he flops down on the sofa to watch some crap telly, and pretends he's not waiting for Sherlock to come home. He also attempts to not picture Sherlock with either of the men he may or may not be.... _with_ right now. Neither endeavor is successful.

Hours pass as John fights sleep. He finally glances at the clock. It's five o'clock in the morning and still no sign of Sherlock. He rolls over to face the back of the couch, and draws his knees up to his chest in silent misery, subconsciously mirroring Sherlock's favorite sulking position. Eyes closed in defeat, he can’t stop from straining to hear the door open. The sound never comes, and he finally loses his battle with exhaustion in the faint light of the approaching dawn.

 

 


	4. Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!! Back again for another thrilling installment of this little tale :D How's everybody doing? 
> 
> Thanks again to my amazing beta, leyley09!
> 
> Feels. Lots of 'em. Be prepared. Just sayin'.
> 
> And thank you so, soooo much for reading, commenting, etc. You have no idea how much it thrills me to know people are enjoying my little story :D I'm re-naming Thursday. It's now Squeeeeday!

 

 

 

 

 

When John awakens in the late afternoon, he stretches lazily, snuffles deeper into his pillow, and pulls the duvet over his head to block out the harsh glare of sunlight. He rolls onto his back, and suffers a moment of utter displacement before landing with a hard jolt on the sitting room floor.

_Oh. Right. Sofa._

The edgy discontent of the night before has settled into the base of his skull as a dull, throbbing ache. He sits up, and a massive yawn stretches his jaw, sore from clenched teeth. He grinds the heel of his palm into his right eye, rests his elbows on drawn-up knees, and drops his head heavily into his hands.

He turns his head slowly to look at the warm nest he just dropped out of. How in the hell did his bedding appear on the couch? Perhaps Mrs. Hudson? No, she's on holiday. The only other explanation is..... He glances quickly around.

No. Sherlock must have come home at some point, but he's not here now. The flat still has the empty, hollow feeling from the hours of early morning. He imagines Sherlock entering the flat as he sleeps, tries to picture Sherlock going up to his room, retrieving his bedding, coming back to tuck him in. Warmth floods him at the thought of Sherlock cradling his head to slip the pillow underneath. _Don't get ahead of yourself, you numpty. You've done the same thing for him dozens of times; he's just returning the favor._ While it's not exactly what John wants, he's undeniably pleased at the thought that proximity to him might be causing the self-proclaimed sociopath to be more considerate of others.

John makes a cup of tea, carries it into the sitting room, and drops into his armchair. As he takes his first sip, he notices that across from him, in the seat of Sherlock's chair, is a folded piece of paper. His name is on the front, written in Sherlock's spiky script. John stares at the note for a moment before reaching out to pluck it from the seat. He unfolds the paper _why are my hands trembling_ and reads the short message.

 

**I will see you at the club tonight. All will be explained. - SH**

 

John's pulse leaps at the mention of seeing Sherlock soon. Is there new information on the case? Or is he planning to explain where he’s been? John is not entirely sure that he wants to hear that explanation. He takes another sip from his cup and grimaces. He's sat there staring at the message so long that his tea’s gone cold. Setting his cup down, he glances at the clock. Time to get ready.

 

oOoOoOoOoOo

 

Scanning the club for any sign of Sherlock, John takes his accustomed place behind the bar. After exchanging greetings with the other bartenders, he turns to begin restocking the cooler, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turns to meet Patrick’s wide grin.

“John! What are you doing back here? Your friend is waiting for you at your table.” He makes a vague gesture toward stage. “What do want to drink, mate? It’s on me, whatever you want.”

“What?” John turns to look, but the bar is so busy that he’s unable to see through the crowd. “Sherlock needs to see me? Do you know why?”

“No, no, not that friend, your other detective friend, the DI. He’s over at table eleven. Go join him, and I’ll bring your drink. What’ll you have?” He bumps his already beaming smile up a notch. “You’ve got an unlimited tab with me tonight, might as well use it!”

“Uh...scotch. What’s going on? Why the tab?” John’s brows draw together in puzzlement as he watches Patrick pour his drink.

“Best way to say thank you is with lots and lots of alcohol and beautiful men to look at, mate.”

Thank you? John stares blankly, and Patrick hands over his glass with a wink. “Go see your friend. He’ll fill you in on the details while I deal with this lot,” he says, waving a hand at the crowded bar. “Let me know when you’re ready for a refill.”

“Okay, er, thanks,” John says distractedly, already turning to duck under the pass-through and wade through the crowd toward the table Patrick mentioned. It’s one of the VIP tables lined up in front of the stage. He finally spots Greg and drops into the chair next to him.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he asks without preamble.

Greg greets him with a smile and a raised glass. “Hey, far be it from me to turn down free drinks. Cheers, mate!” He taps John’s glass with his own and takes a sip.

Suddenly, the quizzical look on John’s face smooths into realization, the pieces falling into place as his brain finally catches up. “The case is closed?

It’s Greg’s turn to look puzzled. “Yeah, got the bastard behind bars as we speak. Sherlock didn’t tell you about it?”

“I haven’t seen him, not since before I left here last night.” John explains. “Have you seen him?

Greg’s eyebrows fly up, almost meeting his hairline. “Not since he left the Yard this morning. Did he not make it home?” he asks, looking mildly alarmed.

“No, no….I mean, yeah, he did at some point, but I was asleep. He was gone again by the time I woke up, though.” John pulls out his phone and shoots off a quick text to Sherlock.

 

_Where are you? -JW_

 

“Well, that’s a bit odd,” says Greg, relaxing nevertheless. Sherlock was nothing if not odd. “Yeah, got a text from Sherlock early this morning with a hotel room number. By the time we got there, he had the arsehole knocked out and tied up with bed sheets. Said something about the guy's manicure being uneven and some other rubbish about his cologne. Said a load of other stuff too, but you know how he is, I didn’t catch half of what he said.”

“Why the hell didn't he tell me that’s where he was going?” John sputters, his voice beginning to rise. “Bloody git, running into a situation like that without backup!” As noisy as it is in the club, he's loud enough now to start attracting attention.

“Jesus, keep your voice down.” Lestrade makes shushing motions at him.

“Sorry...sorry, I just...He’s just so damned frustrating!” John scrubs his hands through his hair, trying to make sense of all this. “At least tell me the murderer was a tall, blonde haired bloke, handsome, green eyes?”

“Yeah, that’s him. They’re gonna love that pretty face of his in prison.”

“What about the other guy?”

Lestrade looks puzzled. “What other guy? There’s no other guy. We knew from the beginning this was a one-man job.”

Oh God. So Sherlock’s interest in Ethan was definitely not case-related.  John hadn’t realized that he’d been feeling hopeful until the emotion falls away, leaving him limp. He drains his glass and drops it on the table between them. He feels his phone vibrate with an incoming text.

 

_I’m here. - SH_

 

John glances around the club, looking for Sherlock. He grabs his glass from the table and gestures toward Lestrade’s drink. “Ready for another one?”

He barely waits for an affirmative nod before he’s off to the bar, scanning back and forth as he goes. Not that he has the foggiest clue what he’s going to say to Sherlock when he sees him. It seems as if he may discovered his attraction too late.

 

_Yeah, but where here? - JW_

 

John pauses in his tracks a few feet away from the bar, gut clenching as he spots a familiar form sitting there. Not Sherlock. Ethan.

It’s not hard to see why Sherlock would be interested; the man is rather good-looking. And he’s really very sweet, even if his flirting _is_ somewhat clumsy. A perfectly nice guy. Not his fault at all that John is seething with jealousy at the sight of him.

John closes the distance between them, squelching his reaction. If this is who Sherlock wants, the least John can do is attempt be gracious about it. John walks up and leans against the bar next to Ethan, signaling to Patrick for a couple of refills and plastering what he hopes is a friendly smile on his face.

“Hey, Ethan.”

Ethan glances up at him with what appears to be genuinely pleased surprise. John suppresses the urge to punch him in the face.

“John! Nice to see you on this side of the bar.” His grin ratchets up a notch. “Congratulations on the case, by the way. And here I thought you were just a cute bartender.”

“Scott told you about it?”

“You mean Sherlock? Yeah, told me this morning.”

John gives one small, tight nod and looks down at the bar, not trusting himself to speak. Well, that’s the mystery of the flatmate’s disappearance solved. John almost manages not to envision the pillow talk that led to that conversation. That’s great. _Just great._ Just when he thought he couldn’t feel any worse about the whole damned situation.

Whatever Ethan sees in his profile causes him to lean closer and speak quietly into his ear. “John, whatever you’re thinking, don’t. It’s not my place to tell you why he came to see me, but I can tell you that you need to let him know how you feel.”

John’s eyes snap to Ethan’s face, feeling exposed. The gentle, understanding smile on his face gives John a small measure of his hope back. Even so, he groans. “You don’t understand. If it’s so obvious to you, then he must already know. You don’t know how he is; he sees everything.”

“John, how could he? I don’t believe _you_ even know how you really feel. Do you love him?”

Love? Does he love Sherlock? Of course he does. Sherlock’s his best friend. He opens his mouth to explain this to Ethan, only to be interrupted.

“No, don’t give me the standard line. You two don’t look at each other like friends. Think about watching him on stage, and _then_ answer my question.” He glances down at his watch, then back at John. “You’ve got one minute. Don’t over analyze; just tell me how you feel.”

John thinks about their friendship, how he was drawn to Sherlock from that first day in the lab at Bart’s. The early morning calls from Lestrade, Sherlock’s brilliant deductions, the heart pounding foot chases through the dark London night, the late night adrenaline fueled celebrations when a case is successfully closed, Sherlock crashing for an entire day and then devouring everything in the kitchen when he wakes.

Then there are the quiet moments, dividing up the newspaper over the breakfast table, Sherlock playing violin while John enjoys a cup of tea, the amiable wrangling over the kitchen decimating experiments, Sherlock beaming his ‘John-has-said-something-clever’ smile.  All the signs of a perfect friendship.

But watching Sherlock on stage is another story. Just thinking about it is …… damn. All of a sudden, it all makes sense. It’s as if the missing puzzle piece has finally been fitted into place. _Oh my God._ He’s been in love with Sherlock all this time, just never recognized it for what it was.

Ethan is still looking at him, grin growing broader as he watches the revelation wash over John’s face. “Knew you’d get there,” he says with a wink.

John is flattened. It feels as though he’s been hit over the head with a large, Sherlock-shaped brick. He opens his mouth, and then promptly shuts it. What the hell do you say? “Uh...I, um…..” He hears his text message tone go off.

 

_Eyes on me, John – SH_

 

Ethan giggles and glances at his watch again. “I know it’s a lot to process, but right now I think you should go sit down with your friend. You’re going to want a front row seat for this.”

Just then, John hears the DJ announce that Scott is the next performer. Ethan laughs at how wide his eyes are. “Breathe, John. Now, go.”

John grabs his drink and Greg’s, almost knocking them over in his haste. He turns to run back to his table, stopping at the last minute to look back over his shoulder at Ethan.  “Thanks,” he says, ducking his head shyly. “For everything.”

He makes it back to his table just in time to exchange a glance with Lestrade before the club goes completely dark.

[The music starts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vo_qsfvjfSU), and after a few moments, a spotlight illuminates the motionless figure standing with his back turned just outside the backstage curtain. John's breath catches in his throat, seeing the familiar silhouette. Sherlock spins to face forward; he is wearing his own clothes tonight, even down to his Belstaff and scarf. _That's my favorite suit._ This is the Sherlock that John sees every day, and John can't help but think how beautiful he is.

John watches, captivated, as Sherlock looks up and surveys the crowd until he spots John. With their eyes locked, Sherlock draws a deep, shuddering breath that John can see from all the way across the stage. Sherlock stalks slowly forward, his steps almost uncertain. There's a tension visible in the way he moves that hasn't been there before. As John watches him approach, he drags his scarf from around his neck, tossing it behind him. He shrugs his shoulders, allowing the coat to slide from his arms and drop to the floor as he moves. The charcoal grey suit hugs his body, emphasizing his narrow hips and ridiculously long legs. The blue of his shirt is a perfect match for the blue in his eyes, brightening the green specks there. He makes it all the way to the front of the stage before he starts removing his suit jacket, his gaze still burning into John's and a small, intimate smile on his face.

John chews on his lower lip in an attempt to coax some saliva into his suddenly too-dry mouth, and his heart begins to race. He's holding his breath without even realizing it.

 

_Tell me if the feeling flows both ways_

_Help me find a way round through this maze_

_Lock me up and keep me high for days_

_Never let it go down, slow down_

_Maybe you're my perfect drug_

_Make it feel like summer time_

_Take me to the finish line_

_Give me a sign, give me a sign_

 

John is frozen in place, unable to process what is happening. He's pinned under that stare, the one that sees everything. But there's a new uncertainty in Sherlock's eyes tonight. His mouth softens, the smile fading a bit into something more sensitive, more vulnerable, and John sees him quietly singing _'give me a sign.'_ The club around them fades away until there's nothing left but John, Sherlock, and the question between them, so very visible on Sherlock's face. John feels as if all his muscles have turned to water, but manages a tiny nod.

Sherlock's eyes light up instantly, and he gently bites his own lower lip as his hands slide to the opening at the neck of his shirt. He suddenly rips it apart, and the audience goes wild, whistling and shouting approval.

John is barely aware of the noise of the crowd; all of his senses narrow down to one little detail. The one clue that Sherlock has placed just for him, knowing that he’ll make the correct deduction. Around Sherlock’s neck are John’s military ID tags.

John's heart expands to test the boundaries of his chest, and he attempts to smile, but his lips are trembling too much to take direction very well. Something in his face must be doing what it’s supposed to; the tension leaves Sherlock's body, and he once again becomes the fluid, sensual dancer that John has become accustomed to.

He drinks in the sight of Sherlock's eyes intent on his face. _Mine. All mine._ There's no attention to spare for the rest of the crowd. This dance is just for him. John feels as if he might float off his chair at any moment. Sadly, the song ends, and Sherlock disappears behind the curtain, but not before giving John a bashful smile.

After a moment, John snaps out of it and remembers Lestrade sitting across the table. He glances at the other man, not able to rid himself of the besotted expression on his face. Greg looks back at him, grinning from ear to ear.

“I knew it! I bloody knew it! Anderson owes me 200 quid!” Greg laughs until he has to wipe tears from his eyes.

“Jesus, Greg, you had a bet going?”

“‘Course we did. You two have been dancing around this shit for ages. Go home, John.”

Just then, John’s phone vibrates with a text alert.

_Home? - SH_

_Oh, god yes. -JW_

 

John looks up at Lestrade with wide eyes. The older man gives him a lewd wink and says, “Have fun.”

“Oh, fuck off,” John says with a grin, scrambling up from the table as Greg begins to laugh again.

John all but races out the front door, followed by knowing looks and envious glares from the other patrons of the bar. He ignores all of them, no thought for anything but the man waiting for him outside. He bursts out the front door onto the sidewalk and looks around feverishly until he spots Sherlock standing quietly against the outside of the building. The detective walks hesitantly toward him. The nervous tension is back, eloquent in every line of his long body. John gazes up at him, questions evident in his eyes.

“John, I....” Sherlock's voice trails off, his hands wavering in the air, not sure what to do with themselves. He looks shy and completely out of his depth. Gone is his customary suave arrogance, the swagger of the exotic dancer; this is Sherlock lost.

_He's never done this before._ The thought hits John with subtlety of a sledgehammer. All of his own words are jammed in his throat, locked up and struggling for escape.

John takes a deep breath, and exhales it slowly. “Let's go home,” he says, trying to smile, but his lips are quivering. Sherlock just nods and looks away.

 

 

 


	5. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here it is. The Smut. 
> 
> Almost 5000 words of it.
> 
> Gotta say, I thought I was prepared for this moment. Turns out, not so much. 
> 
> Be gentle with me.
> 
> Also, if you haven't listened to the music that goes with these stories, do yourself a favor and listen to these :D Definitely enhances the experience! There's two of them for you this time, Human by Aquilo and Touch by Holy Other. Pretty please?
> 
> Massive thanks to my beta, leyley09! You're the best!
> 
> Y'all just don't even know how happy you make me! All comments, kudos, hits, bookmarks, sideways glances, and come-hither looks are appreciated more than is probably healthy. I squee. I squee hard.
> 
> Got any smut tips? Drop me a comment :D

 

 

The silence inside the cab is deafening. Sherlock opens his mouth as if to speak, but then shoots an annoyed glance at the driver. His mouth snaps shut decisively, and he angles his body toward the window. John can feel the tension radiating from his body in stifling waves.

The quiet becomes too much for John, so he gropes inside his pocket for his phone and the earbuds he had stashed there from his solitary cab ride earlier. Pulling up the song that Sherlock danced to earlier, he tries to block out everything and focus his thoughts.

_What am I to say? How do we even begin?_ For all of Sherlock's confidence, the man sitting next to him now is shy and hesitant. By this point in their friendship, he usually knows exactly how to handle his typically arrogant, autocratic flatmate, but this is new territory.

As he listens to the lyrics of the song, he realizes that Sherlock has been communicating with him all week, telling him with music all the things he doesn’t know how to say.

An incoming text interrupts his thoughts.

_John.... - SH_

_I find that I am unable to deduce your thoughts. I don’t like not knowing. - SH_

John feels a wave of tenderness toward the man next to him and glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. _I've never been able to hide anything from him before. He always knows what I'm thinking. Sentiment._ Sherlock sits rigidly, pressed against the door of the car. His face in profile is carefully controlled, blank except for the tightness around his eyes.

Abruptly, John is struck by inspiration. He scrolls through his playlist, finds [the song he wants](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=50fBVpjz8qI), and removes one of the earbuds. Without looking directly at him, he silently offers the tiny speaker to Sherlock. After a beat of hesitation, Sherlock takes it with trembling fingers and places it in his ear.

 

_This is us, you know it on the inside,_

_This is us, so you should show it on the outside,_

_This is us, brush the dust up off your shoulders,_

_(This is love)_

_Feet on ground, you’ll come round,_

_And be human again._

 

They listen in silence. After a few moments, Sherlock's breath leaves his body with a shudder that John can feel from across the car. Turning slightly to look at him, John sees that his eyes are closed and his fingers are creeping tentatively across the seat between them. John reaches out and brushes across the back of his hand. Sherlock inhales sharply and turns his hand over in quiet supplication. Their fingers softly stroke one another, neither able to remain still but terrified of pressing too hard for fear of breaking this fragile connection.

When the cab pulls up to 221B, they climb out, and John unlocks the front door. As he opens it, he looks back at Sherlock and holds out his hand. Linked together, they climb the stairs to the flat.

Sherlock closes the door behind him and leans against it nervously, shoulders slightly hunched, shaking hands tucked behind his back. He’s obviously unsure of how to proceed. What had been so easy in front of a crowd has become too big, too intense here in the quiet between the two of them.

Stepping back in front of the taller man, John lifts his gaze to Sherlock's, catching his eyes. _You are so beautiful._ John allows everything he feels to show on his face. He once again takes the slim fingers of the man in front of him, bringing them up to press against his cheek. At the touch of Sherlock's trembling hand on his face, John's eyes drift shut and his lips part on a tiny sigh. Moments later, he feels Sherlock's fingers steady a bit and begin to caress his skin. He leans into the touch as Sherlock's thumb brushes over his bottom lip. Bringing shaking hands up to Sherlock’s waist, he steps closer, pulling their bodies into alignment.

John's eyes flutter open at the sound of Sherlock's voice, low and tremulous. “John...I-I've never...I don't know....”

“I know.” John reaches up with one hand to cup the back of Sherlock's neck, barely brushing his cloud of dark curls with sensitive fingertips, pulling his head down gently so that he can brush his lips across the edge of the detective's jaw. “I'll take care of you.” Breathing slowly, he trails soft kisses across a flushed cheek, all the way to the corner of that cupid's-bow mouth. Sherlock turns his face so that their lips meet with a feather's touch, before he pauses.

They stay perfectly still for a few moments, lips grazing, each feeling the touch of the other’s breath, until Sherlock whispers, “John….” He presses lips the rest of the way to John's waiting mouth, capturing the shorter man's lower lip between his own. John inhales sharply, and Sherlock fumbles for his hips, dragging him closer. “I love you.”

With a soft moan, John melts into the embrace, running the tip of his tongue along the seam where their lips meet. A deep growl emerges from Sherlock's throat, and he deepens the kiss, tongue plunging into John's mouth, tasting, exploring. John glides his free hand up Sherlock's chest to clutch at his shirt.

Suddenly, Sherlock grabs John and spins them both around so that he can press the doctor between his body and the door. He rocks his hips forward, pressing his growing erection into John's abdomen. John breaks the kiss to breathe softly, “Sherlock....” The detective responds by moaning quietly into John's neck, nibbling the sensitive spot under his left ear as his fingers find the fastenings of John's shirt. John reaches out to return the favor, but Sherlock roughly grabs his wrists and pins them both to the wall above his head, captured in one large hand. “No, John....just... let me.....” Angling his body, Sherlock returns his other hand to the neck of John's shirt, quickly slipping the first two buttons loose. He slides his hand into the newly freed opening and traces his fingers delicately across John's collarbone, then dips his head to trace that same path with lips and teeth while his hands finish removing John's shirt. He uses one knee to nudge John's legs slightly apart and slide his thigh between them.

Above him, John slams his head back against the door and arches his hips forward to rub his length against the strong thigh between his own. He both hears and feels Sherlock gasp against his skin. John finds himself pressed almost painfully into the wood of the door in the midst of a hurricane of hands and lips and teeth and oh god the distinct pressure of Sherlock's cock digging into his hip. He drops his hands to tangle in the mop of Sherlock's curls to keep them occupied, knowing that Sherlock needs this time to touch and caress and explore, to catalog and record without interference. Faster and faster, Sherlock's fingers dance across the skin of his stomach, his back, his arms, fingertips drifting over his nipples. One large hand reaches down to cup the bulge tenting the front of John's trousers, and Sherlock's whole body begins to tremble.

Startled by the feeling of Sherlock trembling so violently against him, John pulls back to peer at his face and gasps. Sherlock is shattered, eyes frantic, breath erratic, hands fluttering uselessly. John feels an instant surge of satisfaction that _he_ has done this. Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant, beautiful, fascinating person John has ever known, is completely undone with desire for _him_. The fierce, possessive pride sweeping through his body is urging him to _take_ without reservation, to invade and conquer.

_Stop._

_He’s never done this before._

John wants nothing more than to throw himself into the flame of Sherlock’s need and have it consume him, but Sherlock has dissolved into a quivering bundle of raw nerves, clearly frightened by the force of his desire. Perhaps a slower exploration is needed. John racks his brain, trying to find a way to give Sherlock some measure of control, some way to focus his mind and put him at ease. Remembering the confident way Sherlock moved onstage, an idea springs into clarity.

John presses his forehead against Sherlock's, stroking his face with one hand. “Shhhhh... easy now, love. Shh... I've got you.” John uses his other hand to rub Sherlock's back, gentling him with slow, measured caresses. After a minute, the shaking eases, and the long body relaxes into him.

Sherlock still looks lost, but no longer afraid. John leans forward for a kiss, careful to keep it light, and whispers against Sherlock's lips, “Dance for me?”

It's exactly the right thing to say. Sherlock's usual confidence seeps back into his eyes, replacing the unfocused look. There's gratitude there as well, acknowledging the gift of control John has given him.

Before John can quite process how it has happened, Sherlock's fingers are dipping into the waistband of his trousers, clutching the fabric and dragging him away from the door.

Sherlock kisses John again, this time languid and sensual as he propels him backward, stumbling through the flat. John feels pressure behind his knees and drops inelegantly into Sherlock's armchair. His heated eyes move upward, raking over the man standing before him. Sherlock toes off his shoes and removes his socks, but otherwise remains fully dressed, if a bit ruffled. Sherlock observes John with eyes dark and hooded with desire. A predatory grin graces his lips, causing John to draw an uneven breath. Sherlock prowls _there really_ is _no other word for it_ around the back of the chair, out of sight.

John closes his eyes and grips the arms of the chair, trying to bring his pulse back to normal. There are tapping sounds coming from his laptop on the desk behind him, and [a heavy beat begins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAN6UZHpaNc), overlaid with a ghostly voice. Then he feels a hot, moist breath in his ear.

“Did you enjoy watching me dance, John?” Sherlock growls, his voice deeper than John has ever heard it before. Lips trail over the back of his neck, around to his other ear, causing John to shudder.

“I loved having your eyes on me. I could feel you watching, _wanting_.” Open kisses along his hairline make his breath come faster.

“I know you were thinking of me in the shower, touching yourself. Were you watching me dance in your mind?” A deep, rumbling moan and nibble on his ear. John is whimpering, his breath stuttering in his chest.

Footsteps begin to circle around in front of him again. “Eyes on me, John.”

Sherlock stands swaying before him, running his hands across his concealed body. _No one should look this tempting with so many clothes on._ It's a slow tease, one button at a time. Eventually Sherlock's chest is revealed, smooth and lightly muscled, framed by silk. He rolls one shoulder, his shirt slipping down his arm, followed by the other, until the delicate fabric lies in a puddle at his feet.

John drinks in the sight of Sherlock's naked chest with greedy eyes. It's not like he's never seen Sherlock topless before; he's been staring at it all week at the club. And that’s not even counting the times the git wandered around the flat in nothing but a sheet. But this is the first time John has been able to look his fill with the knowledge that soon he will be able to touch that alabaster skin. His mouth waters at the thought.

Sherlock manages the top button of his trousers before his hand slides down over his clothing to palm the hard length swelling there. His eyes drift shut on a moan, breaking his gaze, tipping his head back. It takes every ounce of willpower John can muster to remain in his seat and keep his hands to himself.

Sherlock's zipper comes undone, one torturous, agonizing click at a time until he is able to shimmy out of his trousers, leaving him in nothing but short black boxer briefs that ride low on his hips and cling to every curve. Opening his eyes to burn into John's, his long fingers tease at the waistband of the tight underwear.

The beat of the song shifts into a lower gear, and Sherlock stalks toward John, pausing to reach down, grab the backs of his knees and drag him forward until he is slouched into the chair, legs spread. Sherlock folds his long limbs around him, one knee against each hip, straddling John's thighs and pressing their erections together, “Oh god, Sherlock....” John grinds out through his clenched teeth. They both pause, breathing heavily, eyes locked and searching. Sherlock cradles the back of John's head with both hands and slowly brings their lips together again.

The kiss is surprisingly slow and gentle, but no longer even the least bit tentative. John cannot suppress a needy whine as Sherlock licks into his mouth, mapping lips and teeth and tongue. He raises his hands from the arms of the chair to slide down Sherlock's back, finally getting his hands on that ridiculously plush arse and raising his hips to grind their pelvises together. Sherlock breaks the kiss with a loud gasp, throwing his head back and arching his body closer. “John! Oh... _oh!_ ”

John's lap is suddenly, _achingly_ empty, and Sherlock is on his knees, reaching for the fly of John's trousers with shaking hands. John moans as the confining pressure on his cock is released, lifting his butt slightly so that the man between his legs can remove his trousers and pants, revealing his thick erection to Sherlock's intense gaze. Desire is plain on his face, but it’s shadowed by hesitation.

“You don't.... you don't have to....” John's cock twitches in outraged rebellion at the statement.

Sherlock's eyes flit up to John's. He swallows visibly, frustration momentarily darkening his face.

“No, John. I want to. I want to taste you, but…... I don't know how to please you. I have no experience here.”

John's need is laced with tenderness at the vulnerability in his words. He smiles and reaches out to run his fingertips softly down Sherlock's cheek. “There's nothing you could do right now that wouldn't please me. As long as you _please for the love of Christ_ put your mouth on me, right fucking now!”

Sherlock's uncertainty is erased by a blinding grin. “Yes sir, Captain Watson.”

He leans forward to nuzzle into the curls at the base of John's cock, inhaling deeply. “You smell like sex,” he says with a groan.

John grips the arms of the chair once more, willing his body not to move. Tiny flicks of Sherlock’s tongue trace John’s length until he reaches the tip. He curls his tongue around the foreskin, teasing it back to expose the swollen head, already leaking pre-come. Sampling this with a long lick across the head, Sherlock makes a happy noise. “You _taste_ like sex, John.”

He immediately leans forward again, taking in as much of the length as he can. It's messy and clumsy and _oh sodding Christ._ John allows his head to collapse onto the back of the chair while he focuses all his willpower on _not_ thrusting into that warm, wet mouth. Sherlock is a quick study, tracking his reactions, deducing what will make his breath hitch.

Sherlock’s technique is improving from moment to moment, and it doesn't take long for John's hips to start twitching upward without his consent. He knows that he will not be able to master himself much longer, so he reaches down and gently pulls Sherlock away.

Careful to catch the other man's gaze reassuringly, he says, “Fuck, Sherlock, your fucking mouth! I'm not going to last if you keep going like that. And I really, really want to last.” John shifts his body so that he slithers out of the chair and down to straddle the kneeling man's thighs. Holding Sherlock's face in his hands, he allows his need to show in his gaze as he grinds his naked erection down onto the cloth covered bulge in Sherlock's lap, unable to suppress a growl at the contact.

Sherlock fills his hands with the curves of John's arse, pressing them together even more tightly and releasing a whimper of his own. He frantically kisses John, plundering his mouth, before raking his teeth across his jaw, stopping to nip at the flesh below his ear. John shivers in his arms. Sherlock mouths his way down the side of John's throat, which has begun to make breathless noises. Ending with his mouth lodged in the notch between neck and shoulder, he moans helplessly into John's flesh, “Fuck me, John. Please. _Please_ , I need you to fuck me.”

Sherlock Holmes. Begging him, John Watson, to fuck him. It's raw and desperate, and John draws back once again to look into Sherlock's face, stunned by the naked trust he sees there. _No one else has ever seen him like this. Ever. Only me._

Once again, he is drowning in affection for this improbable, inexplicable man and the level of trust that he has placed in him. With a look of wonder on his face, John manages to whisper, “Oh, Sherlock....” before the lump in his throat grows too large for words. He clears his throat and rises to his feet, reaching out a hand to help Sherlock stand. Still not trusting his voice, he silently tugs Sherlock's hand, leading him up the stairs and into his bedroom.

After closing the bedroom door and turning on the bedside lamp, John gently pushes Sherlock against the wall once more and kisses him reverently, as his hands trace the lines of Sherlock's back and slide down over his ribs to rest at his waist. John breaks the kiss to nip at his jaw. “Do you have any idea how stupidly beautiful you are?” Sherlock makes a needy sound deep in his throat and threads his hands into John's short hair, tugging gently.

John nuzzles down Sherlock's throat, littering it with kisses, as he lifts one of Sherlock's thighs to his hip, pinning it there with his elbow and sliding his hand under the fabric still covering Sherlock's arse. The taller man's head falls back against the wall with a soft thunk, and he groans, “Oh my god, John.” The move allows John's questing fingers to ghost over Sherlock's perineum, and he feels a shudder run through the body pressed so tightly against his.

John's fingertips trail lightly into the cleft of Sherlock's lush arse, nudging toward his entrance. “Is this what you want?” he breathes, his lips brushing the shell of Sherlock's ear.

Elegant fingers clench tightly in John's hair as Sherlock makes a choked noise. His voice comes out ragged, “Yes, oh god yes, John... _oh!_ ”

John growls deep in his throat at the sound of Sherlock's voice, desperate and wanton. He knows that he needs to control this situation, balance both of their needs with Sherlock's inexperience, but he allows himself a few grinding thrusts against the hardness straining at the seams of Sherlock's pants. Reining himself in with difficulty, he lowers Sherlock's leg to the floor and guides Sherlock to the bed, pushing him down gently to lie in the center.

John crawls across the bed, nudging those ridiculously long legs apart until he can kneel between them. He slides his hands up Sherlock's thighs and over his hips to grasp the waistband of his pants and slides them down slowly, his eyes drinking in every inch of flesh revealed. When Sherlock is finally naked, John's breath catches in his throat.

John gazes down at the beautiful man laid before him like a feast. Alabaster skin flushed with need, long limbs soft and languid, smoothly muscled chest heaving, lips parted and swollen, and eyes _dear god those eyes_ dilated and radiating want. _I'm the only one who will_ ever _see him like this._ The thought makes John's hands clench into possessive, greedy fists. With a bit of effort, he relaxes his grip to trace patterns on the inside of Sherlock's thighs. “You look bloody gorgeous like this. Wanton and gasping for me.”

The hands on Sherlock's thighs grow firmer, pushing them apart, and John leans down slowly. Keeping his eyes on Sherlock's, he breathes softly onto the head of his cock. “Do you taste as good as you look?” He hasn’t done this in a very, very long time, but he remembers enjoying it rather a lot. The feeling of having your lover completely unravel beneath your mouth is intoxicating.

He delivers a few teasing licks to Sherlock's cock, causing the other man to groan and grasp the hair at the back of John's head. Smiling at this, John repeats this a couple of times before placing a soft kiss on the head and then opening his mouth, slowly taking Sherlock's length, inch by inch, as far as he can. He knows that Sherlock doesn't want to come yet, so he sets a punishingly slow pace, keeping the pressure light and teasing. After a minute or two of this, he feels Sherlock tugging his hair. He looks up at his partner.

“John, please.” Sherlock's eyes are desperate, his breath labored. “Please, John, I want.....I need you...” He breaks off, his face a bit frustrated at his inability to communicate clearly. John gives himself a mental high-five at having taken apart Sherlock's usual composure.

“I want you inside me, John.” he finally says, slowly and deliberately, a token attempt at his typically imperious tone, his wild look completely at odds with his measured words.

“Yes.” John breathes, wanting nothing more than to dive into Sherlock's warmth and rut blindly until....

_Slow down, Watson. He's a virgin. Slow it the fuck down._

John closes his eyes momentarily, clamping down his iron will, then opens them again to burn his gaze into Sherlock's. “Yes. Soon.” He crawls up the long body under him, taking the opportunity to bring their hips into alignment and rocking languorously, grinding their naked erections together. Sherlock gasps, his head falling back onto the bed, exposing his neck. John leans in and nips it sharply, causing Sherlock to gasp even louder.

Intrigued by the responsive noises emerging from his lover, John presses in with a hard sucking bite, and Sherlock's body arches off the bed, hands clutching the sheets as he moans John's name and rolls his hips, seeking friction. John pulls back to admire his handiwork. The red splotch left on Sherlock's throat is already darkening nicely, marking him. The idea pleases John, that everyone will see it and know that his lover is taken. _Hands off._ “Shall I make you a necklace of these?” he murmurs into Sherlock's ear.

Frustrated desire showing in every plane of Sherlock's face, he groans, “Yes, yes, whenever you like, but for god’s sake, John, fuck me, please!”

John chuckles darkly as he reaches into his nightstand for the bottle of lube he has stashed there. “There's my Sherlock, always so demanding.” He pauses to nibble the outer curve of Sherlock's ear. “But if you want me to _fuck_ you,” he punctuates this with a snap of his hips, making Sherlock gasp, “you're going to have to be patient for once in your bloody life.” John coats his fingers with lube and reaches down between Sherlock's thighs, searching out his entrance. “Although, I must say I do like the sound of that 'please' on the end of your sentence.” One finger slowly eases into Sherlock's tight heat, and John is rewarded with a strangled whimper. “I could get used to hearing you beg.”

John goes slowly, once again capturing Sherlock's mouth and thrusting gently into him with his fingers, waiting patiently for the other man to rock against his hand before adding another, then another. He swallows the noises that are breathed into his mouth, each one traveling down through his body and resonating in his cock. He can't seem to hold back a deep moan of his own as his fingers brush against Sherlock's prostate, causing him to shudder in John's arms and cry out raggedly. “Oh...oh god...yes...please, John, hurry!”

John stills his probing fingers, pulls back, and looks deeply into Sherlock's frantic eyes. “You're sure?”

Sherlock stares back for a moment, John's words sinking in. His eyes soften and calm slightly as his swollen mouth curves into a trembling, watery version of his customary smirk. “I'm always sure.”

John breathes a laugh, love for this man welling within him. He leans in once more to kiss Sherlock gently, lingering there when fingers gently cup the back of his head. The kiss is sensual and slow and feels like a promise. He resumes the soft thrusting of his fingers as his lips leave Sherlock's to wander the rest of his body. John kisses and licks his way down that delectable throat, pausing to nip at a delicate collarbone before being momentarily distracted by a pretty pink nipple.

Finally, John sits back on his heels, and eases his fingers gently out of Sherlock, earning him a whimper. He watches his lover as he grabs the lube and applies a generous amount to his own neglected erection. He notices that Sherlock is watching him as well, so John takes a moment to stroke himself slowly, displaying his length. He takes one of Sherlock's legs and drapes it over his good shoulder. Lining himself up with Sherlock's entrance, he barely nudges the opening with the head of his cock. Looking back up at Sherlock, he asks, “Ready?”

“Yes, John...dear god, yes...” Sherlock's voice is deep and breathless, spiked with need. John leans down to kiss him as he pushes in slowly. Small noises of pleasure/pain emerge from Sherlock's throat as his body tenses up. He tears his lips away to pant into John's ear.

John stops moving and lays his hand against Sherlock's neck. “All right, love?”

“Yes...just...don't move...just for a minute...” Sherlock's eyes are screwed shut.

“I need you to relax for me, Sherlock.” John strokes his hand down Sherlock's side and back up, trying to ease the tension. He reaches for Sherlock's hand and threads their fingers together. “Look at me, love. Look at me, and know I've got you.” Sherlock opens his eyes and searches John's gaze. His body begins to ease around John, and finally he gives a small nod and a tremulous smile.

John's lips curve into a wicked grin, and he slowly begins to move. He's been so concerned about Sherlock up to this point that he hadn't really allowed himself to feel the tight heat around his cock. _Oh Christ._ He gives himself up to the sensation of being inside this gorgeous man, setting a quiet rhythm that will allow them both to feel every inch of each other. Hearing Sherlock moan and gasp beneath him is testing his control more than he expected.

When Sherlock begins to rock back against him, meeting his thrusts, John picks up the pace. _Fuck._ John watches his cock disappear over and over again into the tight, wet heat of Sherlock's arse, and it's the hottest thing he has ever seen. _I could come just from the sight. Maybe if I just angle it like this..._

“Oh my god!” Sherlock arches off the bed. Yes. His eyes spring wide only to fall shut again. “Fuck...fucking Christ... _John_ , yes...just like that...oh _god_ John.”

John speeds up again, making sure to drive into that spot on each thrust. “Open your eyes, Sherlock, look at me.” Sherlock is so lost in his own reaction that it takes a moment for him to respond, lifting heavy-lidded eyes to John's face. His lips are parted, and he breathes heavily between them.

“Eyes on me, Sherlock. I want you looking at me when you come.” John reaches down to take Sherlock's straining cock into his hand, stroking him in counterpoint to his own rhythm.

He can feel Sherlock's entire body begin to tremble at his words, and he is awed once again by the effect he has on this beautiful man. “John...I...oh god....oh fucking _Christ_...” Sherlock bites out the last word through clenched teeth, and John can feel the entire body below him begin to tighten, muscles clenching. He can see Sherlock struggling not to throw his head back, not to close his eyes, fighting his body to maintain eye contact. “John!” John feels pressure clamp down on his cock a moment before his hand is engulfed in wet heat. And Sherlock's face... _oh how gorgeous_. It's enough to send John plunging over the edge, pulsing into Sherlock.

John collapses onto Sherlock's chest, their heaving breath the only sound in the room. He feels hands stroking his hair and raises his head with effort to look at Sherlock. The debauched detective’s eyes are closed, his face relaxed.

“I love you too, you know,” John whispers into the lamp-lit darkness. A slow, genuine smile crawls across Sherlock’s face, his eyes still closed.

“Obviously.”

 

 

 

 


	6. So High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here, it's finished, it's finally done!  
> To be honest, I'm a little sad it's over.  
> This has been one hell of an experience, and I can't thank everyone enough for all your encouragement! When I started this, there was a distinct possibility that it might be the only thing I ever wrote. (Sherlock is not the only one who likes experiments.) I gotta say, I may have found a new addiction. I've already got at least two more stories in the wings, so look for those at some point in the relatively near future.  
> So now that it's all together in one piece, what did you think? What made you laugh? Cry? Cringe? What did you love? What did you hate? Seriously not fishing for compliments, here. I truly want to know what you would have liked to see done differently. I have a desperate urge to become a better writer, so let me know!  
> And as always, ya'll give a round of applause and virtual cupcakes to leyley09, beta extraordinaire! Without her, this story would be a hot mess. She took a chance on a complete unknown, corrected me, encouraged me, made suggestions, and listened to me freak out. You're the best, ley!  
> The song for this one is So High by Ghost Loft. Check it out, it might actually be my favorite of all the songs in this story.  
> Enjoy!

 

 

John wakes, automatically registering the feeling of being restrained. _Jesus, not again._ His body struggles weakly, sleep falling away and adrenaline beginning to take over. His restraints tighten, and there is a faint snuffling sound.  John freezes in place, and the sound of gentle snoring fills the quiet air.

_Oh._

John opens his eyes to peer down at the nest of dark curls exploding across his chest, the corresponding face pressed almost into his armpit, mouth slack and drooling slightly. It’s incredibly endearing, and he huffs a breath of disbelieving amusement. Sherlock’s a cuddler.

He’s also incredibly heavy. John rolls gently onto his side, his arms guiding Sherlock down with him, face to face. He reaches out to brush the hair out of his lover’s face, and finds that he is unable to remove his fingers from the thickets of curls. Now that he is allowed this liberty, he will never want to stop.

He ponders the sheer absurdity of his situation. Just a week ago, he never could have imagined that he would be ridiculously, stupidly, _incandescently_ happy to wake up with his best friend stretched out atop him like a duvet stuffed with coat racks. At the very least, he would have predicted some sort of morning-after existential crisis, had he truly been in any shape to predict anything at all other than a spectacular shag. Tracing his thumb lightly over the ridge of Sherlock’s cheekbone, he feels no anxiety, only a bone-deep contentment bordering on joy. He snorts lightly, thinking that he must have finally gone ‘round the twist this time, but can’t find it in himself to be arsed to care.

A soft hum breaks the silence, and Sherlock’s head presses gently into his palm. Aquamarine eyes open, ascertaining John’s presence, and a deep voice rumbles, “Good morning.” His long body stretches luxuriously before dropping back into languid relaxation, his eyes falling closed again.

It lasts only for a moment. Eyes popping open wide, he exclaims, “John!”

Grinning, John rubs a gentle hand across Sherlock’s hip. “Yeah?”

“I’m hungry.” He levels a faintly accusing glare at John out of eyes gone to glittering slits.

John giggles. “That does happen after vigorous physical activity, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffs, disgruntled. “Is it always like this?”

Still chuckling, John ruffles Sherlock’s hair playfully. “Is that going to be a deal breaker for you? I’ve finally found a way to get you to eat. Come on, you scrawny git. Up you get, and I’ll make us a proper fry-up.”

“ _Mmmm_.” Sherlock nibbles his way to the juncture between John’s shoulder and neck with tiny, nipping kisses, only to be interrupted by a loud grumble from the direction of his stomach.

“Joooooohn,” he whines into the space below John’s jaw. “For the love of god, feed me. Soon.”

John disentangles himself, pulls on his pants, and walks out the bedroom door, still laughing, to start breakfast.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John begins to clear a spot on the table just as Sherlock wanders into the kitchen, bedsheet trailing behind his draped form. As always, he lounges in his chair as if he’s fully dressed in bespoke tailoring. John snickers as he places Sherlock’s plate in front of him.

“Nice try, genius. Don’t think for a second that your barely-clad body is going to distract me from finding out exactly _why_ you ran off after that murderer without me,” he says, taking his own seat.

Sherlock picks up his fork and begins shoveling in his food like a man on the flirting edge of starvation. With a distinctly gallic shrug, he mumbles around a mouthful of toast, “Bad timing.”

Swallowing, he continues, “The situation with you was at a delicate point in the process. There was no need to upset the balance by interrupting it with a minor take-down. During our forced proximity during the investigation, I had determined that I could adequately subdue the suspect without assistance, and I even notified Lestrade of our final location before I left the club. Won’t happen again.”

“Yeah, tell me another. I’ve heard that line before.” John’s wry tone is tinged with indulgent fondness, as usual. He sips his tea, watching Sherlock eat while contemplating how normal all this feels. God, how is it possible he never saw it before?

Struck by another thought, he says, “What about all that business with Ethan? Were you seriously just trying to make me jealous?”

“Not exactly. The initial conversation was intended to warn him away. He was far more attentive to you than I was comfortable with. I could hardly allow someone else seduce you away after I had gone to so much trouble to remind you of your desires toward the male form.” Sherlock shoots John a coy glance from beneath downswept lashes. “Awakening your possessive instincts was merely a helpful side effect,” he says with a smirk.

“Initial conversation, huh? What about going to see him after the case was closed, then?” Unwilling to let it go until his curiosity is satisfied, John continues and is rewarded when Sherlock blushes, the delicate pink spreading down his throat and disappearing under the edges of his loosely wrapped sheet. It’s shockingly adorable.

“Well, that… I, um, didn’t know who else to ask. Sentiment has never been my area, John, you know that. I was ninety seven percent sure that I had sufficiently communicated my willingness for a physical relationship with you, but I needed some way to indicate that…. more was included in the offering. Ethan never said so explicitly, but I deduced from what he _wouldn’t_ say that perhaps my interest was reciprocated. The bit with your ID tags was his idea.”

“Effective, that. We’ll have to send him a thank you card.” John grins. “I knew I liked him.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says darkly. “I could see that as well.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I’m the one who spent the whole night thinking you went home with him.” John admonishes, remembering the overwhelming feeling of loss inspired by Sherlock’s absence.

“I know. It was a calculated risk. The results were far better than what I had dared hope. Sulking on the couch is usually my job.”

John frowns, eyes snapping. “Results?! I was completely miserable, you arse!”

Sherlock observes him for a moment, touches the corner of his mouth with a napkin, and pushes his empty plate away. “Shall I make it up to you?” he says, with a singularly sweet smile.

John watches, mystified, as Sherlock rises from the table and moves to the laptop on the desk in the sitting room. After a quick search and a single imperious tap to the touchpad, [music once again fills the flat.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmPSlcRfwmk)

Sherlock turns to face John and holds out his hand, his regal posture unimpaired by the sheet still trailing to the floor. “Come dance with me.”

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Martha Hudson is thrilled to be home. She loves her sister dearly, of course she does, but returning home is undeniably her favorite part of her infrequent visits. As she trudges up the steps to her front door, she begins a mental list of everything that must be done before she can reasonably settle in front of the telly with her evening soother. A bit of dusting, perhaps a load or two of laundry, and maybe a snack for the boys. John does a good job of taking care of himself as well as Sherlock, but certainly a bit of feeding up was always wanted. Scones?

Reminded of her darling boys, she spares a thought for Sherlock. She must make it a point to discreetly ask if any of her exotic dancing tips came in handy.

She pauses just inside her familiar entryway, sensing that something is different. The soft melody floating down the stairs gives her an answer. She drops her bags so she can clasp her hands together and press them to her mouth, preventing all sounds from escaping except a tiny, excited squeak.

Gaining control of herself once more, she scoops up her bags and bustles into her flat, bad hip forgotten as she rapidly rearranges her mental to-do list. Scones will never do. At least not just scones. Hearty fare is what’s wanted; her boys will need to keep their strength up. A nice roast beef will be just the thing. Possibly a batch of meat pies, oh, and a lovely cake to celebrate with.

But right now, this very moment, she simply _must_ call Mrs. Turner…

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John stands and moves toward Sherlock as if compelled, his fit of pique forgotten. Taking Sherlock’s hand, he allows the shrouded man to draw him close.

__

_Everything I want_

_Everything I need_

_I found in you_

__

He feels Sherlock’s arms go tight around his waist, and rests his forehead on Sherlock’s chest, just over his heart.

__

_No matter what they say_

_I’m gonna find a way_

_To be with you_

__

His hands on Sherlock’s biceps, they move together; a gentle, awkward sway at first, then more confidently as they pick up the beat.

_Take me to the place of your sweet love_

_Do you realize what you do to me?_

 

 

 

_\- THE END -_

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Half a Dozen Dances](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11080191) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)
  * [Půltucet tanců](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13257339) by [Hanetka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanetka/pseuds/Hanetka)




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